


(don't) end (us) with silence

by Hugabug



Series: HL Modern Domestic AU [8]
Category: Heneral Luna (2015)
Genre: Broken Families, Domestic, FAMYlia, Infidelity, M/M, Martial Law - Freeform, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Terminal Illnesses, Torture, basically they're two insecure idiots in love, i cried writing this guys good luck, i have delivered, mentions of - Freeform, people were asking me the reason for the almost-divorce, putang ina gusto ba ninyo ma-atonement??????, slight ableism that is later corrected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 23:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7483821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hugabug/pseuds/Hugabug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>At kung magkamali akong ika'y saktan</i><br/>Puso mo ba'y handang magpatawad?</p><p> </p><p>  <i>‘Di ko alam ang gagawin kung mawala ka</i><br/>Buhay ko'y may kahulugan tuwing ako'y iyong hagkan</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Umabot man sa'ting huling hantungan</i><br/>Kapit-puso kitang hahayaan, ngayon at kailanman</p><p> </p><p><i>Ikaw at ako</i><br/>-Johnoy Danao</p>
            </blockquote>





	(don't) end (us) with silence

**Author's Note:**

> or in which miong has a special brand of Self-Loathing™ and pole, when heart-broken, really sucks at Communication™

The walls were bare.

Two months out of his own home and the first thing Pole notices is the fact that the walls were bare.

And it was silly, really, how empty it all seemed, stripped of its sentiment and its tenderly placed memories all displayed behind decorated glass. And it was even sillier to think that, two months ago, all the sentiment, the memories, the reminders had been too stifling, too suffocating to be around. The frozen smiles had mocked him every morning when he had gone down, robbed of the usual gentle morning kiss and the ghost of echoing laughter had trailed behind him every night when he came home to a dinner table with one extra chair.

He had run away from it all, two months ago. Now, the walls were bare.

And he had never felt so empty.

“… You took them down.” was all he could say, forcing the words out of his closed up throat.

Miong dropped the car keys on the small table next to the kitchen entrance. He didn’t turn around.

“Nonong took them down.” he quietly said. “I didn’t.”

Pole swallowed, tried hard to erase from his mind’s eye the image of a little boy lugging around one of the dinner table chairs, determination on his face as he took each and every framed photograph down. How little hands must have worked. How a little lower lip must have quivered. How tears must have washed away the thin layer of dust over each smiling face.

Pole swallowed, again. Felt the burn on the back of his throat. “Miong—”

“I’ll take the couch.” Miong cut him off, still with his back turned, his shoulders hunched forward.

His tone was flat, almost final, unfeeling in a way that shot dread up Pole’s spine. An angry Miong could be placated. A crying Miong, comforted. But a passive Miong… That was the only Miong Pole could bring himself to hate.

And that was the Miong that had been living in their home for the past six months.

How times have changed since that evening his husband came home late, eyes glassy and hair a mess. That night, his smile barely dimpled or reached the corners of his eyes. His hands shook when he hugged Nonong to him. His feet stuttered when Goyong had pulled him into the dining area. His lips were cold when Pole kissed him.

Miong never came home late.

So why had he?

Only one explanation came to mind. Pole refused to believe it. Until it happened again.

For possibly the twentieth time in a single month.

Pole’s mother used to tell him that he was sharp in the mind, but very weak in the heart. It was one of the very few times he had disagreed with her, adamant, like a little child. He strove to prove her wrong, strove to show her that his heart was built of iron and steel. That he could stand on his own beliefs and his own foundation just fine. That he was strong.

He cried at her funeral, but forced the pain to subside. His heart would not break.

And he told himself that many times over the course of his life. When his big brother left for the states. When polio had struck him and taken away his ability to move. When his little brother had been diagnosed with prostate cancer. When his first love, Selong, had passed away due to tuberculosis.

Pole was strong. His heart was steadfast and made of pure iron.

That is… until Miong came home one day, at six o’clock in the morning, wearing just his wrinkled work slacks and an undershirt that wasn’t his.

His mother was right. Pole thought his heart was unbreakable.

It turns out, it just had to be mishandled by the right person.

And he had gotten angry. _Oh_ , how angry. How _dare_ Miong throw away his trust? He had thrown a little tantrum of his own, staying out of the house to work late hours. Taking up cases during the weekend. Barely staying in the house for more than eight hours. It had gotten so bad that there was now a closet full of suits at his work place for the interns to wash every end of the week.

He didn’t want to share a space with Miong. Didn’t want to feel his heart tear into two every time Miong left the house. Didn’t want to look at the life they had built together and think of the day it would all have to end.

 _It’s all your fault_ , he wanted to scream at his husband whilst throwing out all his clothes and doing all the things those cheated on wives and husbands would do on those afternoon telenovela shows Mrs Luna Sr. religiously followed. _This is your fault, Miong. All your fault._

But he didn’t. Instead, he left.

“Miong, wait—“ he began, releasing the break of his wheelchair and wheeling himself into the threshold of their house. “We—“

“I’m giving you space.” His husband cut him off, taking a detour into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. Pole followed him, despite the obvious body language that told him, very clearly, to fuck off. “Kakausapin natin sila bukas. It’s alright. Get some sleep.”

He picked up the pitcher with his left hand, the glass in his right, but it shook, ever so slightly, just like it did whenever under extreme stress, and his fingers locked together, sending the crystal crashing against the floor into four large pieces

“ _Putang_ —“

In the dim light, Pole could see the angry white scar that ran just on the inside curve of his wrist. He remembered how Miong got that scar, being strapped down on a wooden chair and electrocuted for days on end in a camp run by soldiers sworn to protect the very people they were torturing. Seeing it again made Pole’s blood run cold.

He hadn’t been on the streets when the people had celebrated and cheered, new found freedom in their hands once more. Instead, he’d been at the hospital, by Miong’s bed side, holding on to his left hand, staring at the right one bound in white bandages that soaked up seemingly endless red.

The scar remained, even after the bandages came off, even after the shaking had been lessened, even after years of therapy. Miong had tried to make it seem like it didn’t bother him, but Pole had seen the way his husband’s hands shook during particularly long days at the office with his campaigning team, the way the scar seemed to itch on days when the rain just fell too hard.

Pole used to be able to calm him when things like that happened.

Now, he was the cause of the tremors. The thought made him sick to his stomach.

“The divorce papers are upstairs.” Miong babbled, getting on his knees to pick up the pieces with his bare hands. “I haven’t signed them yet but—“

“Those papers were a mistake.”

Miong scoffed, then went quiet, as if the sound itself really wasn’t supposed to leave his lips. “Was this marriage a mistake, too?”

The lump in Pole’s throat grew in size. His stomach felt like lead.

“Nevermind.” Miong shook his head, breaking the long pause and getting up, pressing the trash bin open to dispose of the large glass pieces in his hands. They went in _clink clink clink_ and when Miong lifted his foot to let the bin snap shut, they were thrust into the quiet once more.

Pole could hear his heart (or what was left of it) hammering in his chest. Outside, the crickets sang, and across the street, his sons slept in the cozy Roman residence. It was Friday. It was supposed to be movie night.

But it wasn’t. It hasn’t been movie night for quite a while.

“Miong—“

“I’ll sweep this up.” His husband cut him off, leaving no room for Pole to interject. He was avoiding this, walls up and fists shielding his face, leaving no room for Pole to slip through. It stung, to know that their easy companionship painstakingly built over years of being with each other was no longer there for them to lean on. It stung even more to know that Miong wasn’t doing anything about it.

His right hand was still shaking, trembling under stress as he clenched and unclenched stiff, unccoperative fingers. Pole resisted the urge to reach out.

“We need to talk.” He said, instead, quiet but firm, the tremor in his tone barely audible in its desperation.

Miong swallowed, cast his eyes to the puddle of water on the floor. “I’ll just sweep this—“

“You don’t need to sweep _anything_.” Pole hissed, leaning forward in his chair and glaring. “Miong, _listen_ —“

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Don’t you _dare_ —“

“Pole—“

“Emilio Aguinaldo, for the love of god— _quit cutting me off_!”

His husband’s head snapped back, face twisting, momentarily, into a look of surprise, before recoiling beneath the cool mask he always used when in the middle of congress. The sight of it made something in Pole’s blood boil and, without even thinking, his hand shot out and knocked the small plastic tupperware resting on granite kitchen counter next to him. Day old spaghetti hit the floor, red sauce landing with a _splat_ on sterile white tiles.

The quiet was heavy. Punctuated by Pole’s heavy breathing.

“I think…” Miong began, in a tone that was aiming for monotonous, but landing on strained. “It’ll be best if I stay with Hillaria tonight.”

Pole scoffed. “Oh?” he hissed, fingers clenching into a tight fist. “So what? So you can sleep with _her_ , too?”

Miong choked. “ _What_?”

A gasp. Pole wasn’t sure if it was from his throat or Miong’s, but it was audible enough to plunge the room into a void of quiet once again. Now, everything in Pole’s body was screaming for him to get out. To call a taxi and speed away to his little apartment across the metro. To bury himself in paperwork until his health gave in and he collapsed in a heap.

But no. He’s run away before.

“You—“ his voice cracked, splintered at the end, and he swallowed, fighting back the pinpricks of pain at the corners of his eyes. “Stop _lying_ to me.”

Miong took a shaky breath. “I’m not—“

“No, you _are_.” He cried, not meaning to raise his voice, but being unable to stop. His chest was tight, and something was ripping him into pieces on the inside of his ribs. “You have been for _months_.”

“Pole, please—“

“ _No_ , Miong!” The words weren’t coming to him. He reached for them, reached for that logical part of his brain that triumphed over any other part, but all he found was his beating, bright, anger. It was wet and damp and hot to the touch, and it coiled from somewhere behind his sternum, closing in on his throat and making his tongue stumble on the words that for so long had shielded him from the world.

He felt like a fire. And it hurt.

 _Oh god_ , it hurt.

“Stop _lying_ to me.” Pole whispered, biting his bottom lip that trembled. Fighting back tears that had begun to build behind his eyes. “Please. I want to know. Just—“ He unclenched his fists. Crescent moons of red littered his palm. “ _Why wasn’t I good enough_?”

Miong’s eyes widened, cool mask slipping to reveal a face that twisted with a look of utter horror and downright _grief_. “Pole,” he started, breaths turning into hiccups. He made to move forward, stopped himself. “No. _No_ —you’re _more_ than good enough, you’re _too good_ —“

Pole gritted his teeth, rolled his wheel chair closer. “Then why did you cheat on me?”

“I never cheated on you!”

“Then why are you _lying_ to me?!”

“Pole—“

“ _Tell. Me!_ ”

The silence was like the echo of the shattering glass, of cold spaghetti spilling across the white tile floor. It hung between them, words unsaid and moments forgotten, the weight of their world balanced on their shoulders, dangerously teetering on the precipice, on the edge, of nothing.

Pole reached out. Gently wrapped a hand around Miong’s right wrist.

His husband’s hand continued to tremble.

“Tell me,” he pleaded—no, _begged_. His defense was running on nothing but mercy and emotion, and he had no way of extracting the truth out of an unwilling subject. But Miong was not a subject, he was not a client.

He was Miong, and Miong shouldn’t have to _lie_.

His grip tightened. The look on his husband’s face was terrible.

“Why is your hand still shaking?” Pole asked, voice hoarse, weary. “Why are you afraid of me?”

Miong gulped, tried to pull away. He wanted to retreat, Pole could see it in the way his feet danced, in the way his body went rigged. But Pole held on tighter, and tighter, until he knew his grip would bruise, until Miong could not wrench his hand away anymore and he was trapped.

Pole reached for the other wrist. Held on tight.

“Tell me.” he said, unyielding, even when Miong squirmed, even when he tried to pull away. Pole held on fast, tried not to break. “ _Tell me_ —“

“I _can’t_.” Miong cried, swallowing hard, mask slipping more and more, exposing the pain beneath, the fear. “Pole, I _can’t_ , please don’t make me—“

“ _I’m sorry_.”

Miong stopped. His entire body going still, his shoulders tensing, his eyes wide. He stopped struggling, and the walls cracked.

He slumped to the floor. Pulled knees up to his chest.

The walls cracked.

“I’m _sorry_.” Pole repeated, gathering hands to his face, kissing knuckles in a poor imitation of the way Miong kissed him. He was shaking, almost as much as his husband’s right hand was, but he kissed each knuckle anyway. He’d missed this. Skin to skin contact. Human touch that _cared_. He’d missed this so _much_.

“I shouldn’t have left.” He said against stiff fingers, eyes closed, breath coming out in small hiccups that sent waves of pain down his abdomen. “I shouldn’t have left you— _us._ I shouldn’t have left. I should’ve stayed. Asked. I should’ve _listened_.”

“You would hate me if you knew the truth.” Miong choked.

In the dim light, Pole could see the scar. Angry, white, raised, and deep, running from the inside curve of his husband’s right wrist, to the outside of his elbow. He kissed it, flinched when Miong flinched.

“Try me.”

Silence. Again. Unsure and unfamiliar, tense as Miong’s face twisted from fear, to defeat, to fear again, eyes darting from Pole’s eyes to his own hands to his scar, grappling for a mask and walls that weren’t there anymore. He was laid bare, and he was scared.

Scared of Pole. Scared of Pole hating him.

“I… Two months ago. During Hillaria’s blood drive, in Malate.” He rasped, shaking again, his whole body shivering from a chill that came from inside. “We weren’t required to, but I— _I wanted to_ , Pole. I wanted to help. I wanted… Nag-donate ako and they—Hindi alam ni Hillaria but they—“

He clenched his right hand into a fist and momentarily, the shaking stopped.

“Na-mix up nila ‘yung needles.” He sobbed. “I got… Pole, I’m HIV positive.”

It was Selong all over again.

He hadn’t gone near Selong those days when he was confined to a hospital bed, breathing through a tube, and muttering nonsensical things to anybody who would listen. Pole had been in school, studying hard, trying his best to grab that scholarship. He was still holding on to that mantra, too. _My heart isn’t fragile. I’m not weak. I’ll prove you wrong_.

The last time he saw Selong, it was in those days when the sickness wasn’t even that bad. But Pole could see the changes. He’d been too _thin_ and too _tired_ and he wasn’t Selong. He wasn’t _his_ Selong.

(The funeral was a closed coffin. Pole didn’t attend.)

It was happening again. The fragility. The weight loss. The shortness of breath. The vertigo. Miong’s wrists felt too thin in his hands, his fingers shook for reasons outside of PTSD. It was Selong. It was that stupid detainee camp.

It was Miong. And Pole had _run_. Again. Because, even for a guy in a wheelchair, it’s what he did _best_.

“… Pagod na ‘ko.”

Pole blinked, felt the wrists in his grip grow limp with a fatigue that was more than physical. Legs, once folded so tightly against a heaving chest, fell alongside the rest of the walls built so high over the past six months, the past years, the past decade.

And little by little, the brittle little boy underneath began to emerge.

When they had been in university, just two students still so fresh, still so wide eyed and strangely optimistic about a future so uncertain despite a past already riddled with bullet holes, Pole used to think about him, during those nights when he let himself dream, let his heart beat for the first time since Selong. He would wonder about Miong, wonder about the things that made him smile. The things that made him feel. The things he hated, the things he loved.

But most of all, Pole used to wonder about his childhood. Miong never spoke of his parents or any of his family. He seemed to resent them despite the fact that they obviously cared for him. The only ones Miong ever bothered to talk about back then were his sisters, his hard working ate and the sweet bunso. Aside from that, nobody else. It made Pole curious. Kept him up ‘til his eye lids grew heavy and lost their battle against gravity. When he had imagined his Miong in those years when freedom reigned supreme, he always imagined a little boy, with messy brunette hair and a smile missing a tooth, scrappy elbows and scabby knees, little nimble fingers and toes aiding in climbing trees and running around, arms spread wide and head tilted back, dreaming of what it would be like to fly.

Miong must have been such a sweet child, was what Pole used to think.

What Pole still thinks.

“Hindi ko na… Hindi ko na ‘ata kaya.” Miong breathed, his chest stuttering, his words catching at the back of his burning throat. “Hindi ko na kaya mag-isa.”

A sweet child, so eager to please, falling over himself, chasing after this favor and that. Listening to his mother’s nagging, to his father’s sermons, to his teachers’ criticism. A sweet child, handed everything on a silver platter but told from a young age that a lot was riding on his shoulders. A sweet child, shadowed by his elder sister’s burning flame and burdened by his little sister’s naïve eyes. A sweet child, never taught how to deal with the fact that he could never please everyone, that at some point, somebody will hate him, somebody will oppose him, and somebody will want to see him fall.

A sweet child, a brave child, slowly but surely molded into the unsure, broken little boy he was today.

Pole breathed, inhaled, exhaled. He had left him. When Miong needed him the most, Pole had left him without a second thought.

He must have been so _alone_.

“Nung nakilala kita akala ko ok na ang lahat. Na tama na ang ginagawa ko. Na may silbi pala ako sa mundong ito…” Miong let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. “Ok na sana, diba? Ang saya-saya na natin, eh. Hindi ko alam kung totoo ‘to para sa ‘yo pero _putang ina_ , ang gaan-gaan na ng pakiramdam. Ang gaan isipin na may nagamamahal sa ‘kin hindi dahil kapatid nila ako o tagapagmana pero dahil may nakikita silang _kayang_ mahalin. Ganun tayo, diba? Ganun tayo, eh.”

Miong yanked his left wrist away and Pole let him. Watched as he used his fists to scrub the tears from his cheeks and the tender skin beneath his red rimmed eyes. He looked so lost. Pole wanted to reach out, squeeze him to his chest, and never let go. But Miong was so raw, so open, like an untreated bruise.

And Pole ached to see him this way.

Miong laughed once more, let the tremors shake his shoulders. “Akala ko may ginawa na akong tama.” He whispered, pressing the knuckles of his fist to one of his eyes, forcibly holding back tears that continued to silently escape. “Akala ko hindi na ako masamang tao. Akala ko kaya ko na. Na kaya ko na tumayo ng mag-isa kasi minahal mo ako, Pole. Minahal mo ako at tinuruan mo ako maging matatag. Malakas. Akala ko kaya ko na, pero _putang ina, hindi pala._ ”

The fist fell away. Landed on the floor with a sickening thud that echoed throughout the still house. Pole winced at the sound, eyed the hand on the floor, twitching, itching to reach out and touch something, _anything_ , but laying still instead. Miong was staring at it, too. Eyes half-lidded, puffed up and resigned. Face slack, lower lip still quivering ever so slightly.

“I—” he began, swallowing thickly. “Ilang beses na kita sinaktan, Pole. I have a chance to hurt, to _really_ hurt you, really bad, pero ayoko na kita saktan. Ayoko na manakit. _Ayoko na_.”

Pole tightened his grip, afraid that if he let go Miong might slip away. “Ayaw mo na _ano_?”

Miong looked at him, tore his gaze from his limp hand and _looked_ at him. The walls were gone. The glassy gaze was gone. And Pole looked at him right back, stared at the pools of brown that used to be so tender, so happy. Stared and stared.

He knew what Miong wanted.

“You’re hurting me.”

Pole wasn’t going to give it to him.

“Pole…” Miong breathed, pulling at his entrapped wrist. Trying to free himself. “Pole—”

“Sa tingin mo ba ginusto ko maging lumpo?”

Miong paused. The wrist stilled.

Pole held on a little bit tighter.

“Pole—”

“ _No_. You talked. I listened. It’s my turn now, Miong. _Listen to me_.” Pole hissed, pulling the wrist toward himself, leaning forward, meeting his husband, eye-to-eye because he was so _God. Damn. Tired_. “Do you think I _wanted this_? Do you think I wanted to wake up one day, confined to a _fucking_ wheel chair? Do you think I felt I was lovable like this? I had Selong, Miong. I had Selong before this _stupid_ polio showed up and he died and I lost him and I never even got to say goodbye. I lost the only person I thought was ever going to love me and then I lost my legs do you think I wanted this? _Do you_?”

(It hurt. Oh _god_ it hurt.)

Miong whimpered. It was a splintering sound, frayed at the edges and barely holding itself together. Pole held on tighter, pulled closer. Placed his other free hand on the back of Miong’s neck.

He was going to hold him together. He was going to hold his husband together.

“ _You_ —“ Pole choked, faltering when a sharp pain started to build around his eyes, push against the liquid heat that gathered on his bottom lashes. It hurt. His chest hurt so much, and his throat was burning.

But that was the price of picking up the pieces. Miong was broken. _His_ Miong was broken, and hurt, and splitting at the seams, clawing for air in ways that reminded Pole of himself those years after Selong died, those years after the Polio struck, those years his heart splintered into two and he ignored it for the sake of moving forward. String and twine. That was all that held him together. String and twine.

Then Miong came along and his embrace felt like glue. Reliable. Permanent. Warm in places that made Pole feel _wanted_.

“Binalik mo sa’kin puso ko, Miong.” He rasped, releasing Miong’s wrist and framing his face, bringing him closer, pressing their foreheads together. “Miong, kailangan mo ‘yun maintindihan— _Binalik mo sa’kin puso ko naiintindihan mo ba_? If you think HIV is going to keep me away, well you have to think again.”

Miong shook his head. “Sinaktan kita.” He sobbed, trying to push away Pole’s hands, breath coming in shallow bursts, in inhales and exhales. “Pole, sinaktan kita—“

“ _At sinaktan kita_!” Pole argued, hanging on tighter, desperate. He let go once, he’s not doing it again. “Ilang beses na kita sinaktan, Miong? Iniwan kita nung kinalangan mo ako!”

“Pero kasalanan ko ‘yun—“

“ _Contracting HIV was not your_ fucking _fault_!”

His husband stilled, tensed like someone had just punched him in the gut and stolen all his breath away. Like a trapped animal, not familiar and unsure of the hands of its captor. His eyes were wide, disbelief pooling in the tears that escaped his bottom lashes and rolled down his face. Pole caught them with his thumb, wiped them away as best he could.

But they kept coming.

“Contracting HIV was _not_ your fault.” Pole whispered, running his fingers over sunken cheeks (he looked so so _sick_ ), hands shaking. “It’s unfair and it’s cruel but _you don’t deserve this_ , Miong naiintindihan mo ba ako?”

Silence.

Pole is really _really_ tired of silence.

“I will choose you.” He croaked, growling at how needy he sounds, sobbing at how Miong’s tears continued to fall. “No matter what sickness or stupid decision, I will keep coming back—Miong, it’s not the vows, it’s not obligation. It’s _you_ , and I am _always_ going to choose you, you understand?”

Miong gripped his wrist in a hold that trembled with exhaustion. “I—“ he began, words stuck in his throat, bottom lip trembling, breath coming out in hiccups. “I’m so sorry—“

 _For doubting you. For doubting what you felt for me. For lying. For letting you leave. For letting it get to this_ —

“No, shh.” Pole hushed, shaking his head and pulling him close. “Don’t—No, Miong—“

“I love you.” His husband whispered. The words had been trapped in his mouth for so long, stirring on the tip of his tongue in those six months in the dark, they tumbled out of his lips in quick succession, a desperate mantra that should have been more sweet than bitter. “I love you. I love you. I love you. _Pole_ —“

He was shaking. They both were. But Pole let him bury his face in his neck, and Miong let him pull him closer, run fingers through cropped hair, and for the first time in a very long time, their breathing fell in sync and they were _together_.

“I love _you_.” Pole rasped, kissing Miong’s temple, his cheek. “I love you _so much_. I’m sorry. I’m not going to leave you—”

His heart was fragile, he understood that now.

But he wasn’t going to run.

Not again.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr ver.](http://en-sam-malas.tumblr.com/post/147387047190/dont-end-us-with-silence)


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